


Oh Snap

by nightshiftblues



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Caning, Gags, In Public, Jamilton - Freeform, Light Bondage, Lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Sexting, Spanking, it's just filth and repressed emotions you guys, pillow humping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-02-27 07:11:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshiftblues/pseuds/nightshiftblues
Summary: Why Alex even has Thomas Jefferson added on snapchat is anyone’s guess, it just kind of happened during some work outing and they’ve been sending each other mean snaps on and off since. Mostly pictures of tiny cactuses by Jefferson, and toilet brushes by Hamilton, all captioned with “you”.- i. e. Hamilton accidentally sends Jefferson a nude and things escalate





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once in a blue moon I feel like writing something silly and disgustingly millennial.

The days off from work are the worst. Washington insists Alexander stays home at least every few weeks – _if not for your sake, then to stop me from getting sued by a union for working my employees to the grave, please son_ – but he doesn’t seem to realize that without work Alexander is more miserable than ever.

As per usual, he sleeps well into noon and wakes up feeling like he’s been in a coma for ten years, roams around his apartment annoyed and disoriented. He checks his email a dozen times even though the whole office is strictly forbidden from emailing him on his days off- a courtesy of Washington again. Still, nobody can stop him from scouring over the news, especially on the stock market, and writing down some rough notes on how they might impact their revenue this season. For a moment he feels like a rebellious teenager. Well, until he remembers that as an actual teenager he rebelled by getting wasted and having an active sex life.

He taps out of the news app and checks snapchat, rolls his eyes at Jefferson’s pretentious humble-brag ‘just casually having meticulously arranged fruit and berries on a porcelain plate for breakfast as usual’-story. As if.

Why Alex even has Thomas Jefferson added on snapchat is anyone’s guess, it just kind of happened during some work outing and they’ve been sending each other mean snaps on and off since. Mostly pictures of tiny cactuses by Jefferson, and toilet brushes by Hamilton, all captioned with “you”.

His screen lights up with another snap, this time from ‘JeffBoi’, a dude he met back when he still had a Grindr (the second best thing to come out of that app, the best one being the hilarious stories). They’ve hooked up a couple of times, casually. Jeff only ever snapchats for one reason so Alex isn’t surprised to be treated to a picture of a dick, already hard and leaking slightly, with the caption “come over?”. He never opens the guy’s snaps in public, or at least turns the brightness of his screen all the way down first.

It’s a bit crude for Alexander’s tastes, to open with at least. Nevertheless there is definitely a twinge of interest between his legs. It’s been awhile.

Alex glances sideways at the clock. He’s not sure how the guy thinks he’s supposed to make it over to his place in time if he’s hard already, and he doesn’t really feel like driving anyways (he would have to shower first, too). Still, he can play ball.

Alex settles comfortably against the sofa cushions, hikes up his t-shirt and pulls his sweatpants down enough to expose his treasure trail and the very top of his shaft. He pushes his tongue out for good measure and snaps the pic, accompanied with the caption “can’t, sorry~”.

Jeff is lightning-fast to reply: “Can I at least see you in the thing??”

Alexander snorts quietly, gets up and strips out of his shirt and sweatpants on his way to his bedroom. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

He digs into the depths of his closet and pulls out a pale pink body harness. It’s his favourite piece of lingerie because of the charming simplicity of it; a strap around his waist, connected to a long strap that runs all the way up to his neck and into a choker, held together by silver hoops. The cage design is slightly more elaborate on the back, which makes for a great view, or so he’s been told. He also digs out a matching pink ball gag, runs into the bathroom to give in a quick rinse and straps it on. The feeling of latex prying his mouth open immediately sends a thrill down his spine.

He throws himself onto the bed (thankfully he’d made it after waking up for once), arches his back slightly and tries a few angles before he’s happy with the end result. Alexander Hamilton doesn’t half ass anything, and that includes his nudes. This one doesn’t quite show his dick though - Jeff would have to put in some work for that.

It’s good, he’s not ashamed to admit that to himself. His hair is open and fanned across the white bedheets, and the pearly pink of the harness looks soft and alluring against his tan complexion, the straps wrapping around his slender form. He looks delicate, and yet debauched with his pink lips stretching around the ball gag. It’s almost too good to waste on a regular lay.

Alex gets up to his elbows to rest his strained arm. His finger slips in the awkward position, and he hits send automatically before he can stop the trajectory of his thumb.

Instead of JeffBoi, the snap goes to TJeffs.

An inhuman shriek echoes through the apartment - the ball gag does nothing to stop it as it comes out of Alexander’s throat, or perhaps his very soul. He hurls his phone across the room, immediately scrambles after it, picks it up with trembling fingers and messes up the passcode once. Twice. Trice. Now his phone is locked for a minute.

 _Fuck you, Apple,_ he thinks definitely not for the first time, but with more vigor than ever before.

He stares at the countdown as the seconds tick by and paces around his bedroom in anxious circles. This is it, this is how it all ends. He’ll have to change his name and move back to the Caribbean and never speak to anyone he knows again. Maybe, if he’s lucky, another hurricane will come along to end his misery and he’ll be remembered as a tragic victim of the elements, rather than the guy who accidentally sent a nude to his worst enemy and got fired for sexual harassment.

This is exactly why he shouldn’t have days off from work.

The phone unlocks after what feels like ten years he would much rather spend in a chemically-induced coma, and he taps in the passcode carefully. A pained whine in elicited when he sees that the snap has been opened. There goes his plan to assassinate the man before he sees it. Hamilton’s thumbs hover over the keypad, trying to find a combination of words to undo what just happened, to explain it away or brush it off as a joke. Jefferson’s end is quiet, the man undoubtedly either spitting out his organic smoothie or sending it to everyone they know right about now. _Think, think, think goddamnit!_

There’s a reply. Hamilton’s chest heaves frantically, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. He opens it and chokes on his own spit despite of his mouth being as dry as a desert.

It’s a picture of Jefferson’s midriff, the top just cutting off his eyes. His shirt has been hiked up, like Alexander’s was a while before, exposing his disgustingly chiseled abs and the sharp v-shape of his hips. He’s biting his lower lip, and his free hand is pressing down on his dick through his pants (sweatpants, must be his day off as well). “A good look on you”, says the caption.

Oh.

_Oh._

Hamilton’s lungs no longer know how to breathe.

Sure, the alleged ‘sexual tension’ between them has been a running joke at the office for ages (to both of their dismay), and sure, sometimes the lines between fighting, teasing and flirting kinda get blurred when they get into it. And yes, perhaps Hamilton sometimes catches himself staring at Jefferson’s backside when he’s leaning on Madison’s desk in that annoyingly nonchalant manner. What can he say, the man does know how to wear his suits, that has nothing to do with his southern-ness, his condescension, his _politics-_

The fact that the mere thought of Jefferson’s politics doesn’t immediately kill Hamilton’s half-boner is very troubling indeed.

Still. He has never, not even once, considered that it’s a would-be-down-for-sexting-if-you-offered -type of a thing with them. Certainly not on Jefferson’s end.

It has to be a trap. And yet, how can it be? The cat is out of the bag, if Alex gets fired for indecency, so will Jefferson, now that he has reciprocated. The snap is not timed, so Alex takes the time to inspect it carefully for… signs of deception. God, Jefferson is even more ripped than he’s ever imagined, not that he does, very often at least. It’s unfair. Alexander’s mouth is pooling with drool, which is difficult to swallow down with the ball gag.

And doesn’t it make sense, in a way? If anyone would get a hard on from the mere thought of Hamilton gagged, wouldn’t it be Jefferson? Alex rolls his eyes: _a good look on me, huh?_

He would show him.

With newfound determination Hamilton sits up and snaps a picture where his neck is craned back and his thumb is hooked under the waistband of his boxers tantalizingly, captioned “wouldn’t you like to see me quiet like this".

Jefferson’s lounging on his sofa shirtless in the next picture, the outline of his long shaft now clearly visible through his loose sweatpants. It doesn’t seem like he’s wearing boxers underneath. The caption says “darling you would be far from quiet if I got my way rn”, and it’s embarrassing really how ridiculously hard Alex gets from the mental image of Jefferson pounding into him so hard he screams into the ball gag loud enough to alert the neighbors.

“This is the only instance where I wanna let you tell me what to do so use it wisely", he captions a picture of him pinching his nipple, and edits the “I wanna” to “I’m inclined to" before hitting send. No need to give Jefferson any ideas about him being needy.

Jefferson replies with a picture of him stroking himself through the sweatpants, and dear God there’s already a slightly darker spot where the tip of his dick is. “Think you could get off by humping a pillow like a good little slut?” A shrill whine escapes Hamilton’s throat, which nobody needs to know about.

Tell him what do in an everyday setting and he’ll be sure to do the exact opposite purely out of spite, but being bossed around in the bedroom has always been… a weak spot, for him, and Jefferson is hitting it with mortifying accuracy without even physically being present. Alex can’t help but imagine how _good_ it would be - that nonchalant, self-assured arrogance, and those strong, confident hands bending him over the bed frame. Or just having Jefferson sit there, not touching him, telling him to fuck into a pillow while he watches.

He wants it, he can admit as much to himself in this moment of weakness, but right now the best alternative will have to do.

He grabs a pillow and straddles it, shudders as the coarse, cheap cotton brushes against his flushed and sensitive cock, which he pulls out of his boxers. The shadows cast by his sharp hip bones and the way his knees spread wide apart makes for a pretty picture.

Jefferson most certainly seems to appreciate it; after a few minutes of needy panting and restless fidgeting Hamilton receives a short video clip of Jefferson stroking his cock slowly, his thumb tracing a thick vein on its way down. The tv is on in the background (Fox news from the sound of it), but Hamilton still hears a stifled groan escape his colleague’s lips.

He inhales shakily and his hips start to roll on their own accord. Now that he’s seen what Jefferson’s packing there’s no going back, the image of that long, flushed and leaking cock will haunt him for the rest of his life. Alex pants heavily and adjusts the pillow between his legs so that the firm edge presses against his crotch and imagines Jefferson splayed on the bed, his back arching off the mattress and his curls sticking to his sweaty forehead as Alex rides that cock like it belongs to him, rolls his hips just right and makes him curse and groan.  Jefferson can posture all he wants, Alex knows he could make him whine for it.

Alexander’s hips stutter as his dick slides against the now dampening fabric, the mushy mass of the pillow between his quivering thighs frustratingly malleable when what he wants between his legs is a firm body, and yet the pressure numbs his senses with dull pleasure with every forceful thrust of his stuttering hips. It’s degrading, to be eagerly humping a pillow like a dog or a horny teenager, especially because some asshole told him to, and yet it’s somehow so much better that any of his latest hasty masturbation sessions. Not that he’ll be telling Jefferson _that._

Alex pictures the way Jefferson’s hands would grip his hips, tight and demanding, the way his hips would start to impatiently rock up to meet his, and sends Jefferson a few videos of him rolling his hips against the pillow, his head thrown back and moaning and whining unabashedly - too late to be shy. He has to prop the phone against the bed frame since his arms are too weak to keep it steady at this point.

He wants to slip a finger or two inside, but that would only prove unsatisfactory, the fantasy is too raw and perfect, and besides he wants to be good and only come from humping the pillow if that’s what Jefferson wants. His fantasy version of Jefferson pushes his face into the mattress and fucks him from behind, so hard and quick all Alex can do is grab the sheets and take it, one hand on the curve of his hip and the other one grabbing the harness with two fingers maybe.

Hamilton’s phone rings and he picks up immediately with shaky fingers.

“This what you do all day when Washington drives you out of the office?” Jefferson growls, his voice hoarse and breathless.

Hamilton flushes even more if possible and wants to retort, but the gag only permits him to huff at the comment.

“Nothing to say?” Jefferson taunts. “I gotta say, this is pretty sweet.”

 _If only it worked both ways,_ Alex thinks and rolls his eyes, but then Jefferson makes a little pleased _mmh-_ sound and heat surges through his belly and his hips press down into the pillow eagerly.

Jefferson groans. “Fuck, bet you look even prettier in person right now, grinding against that pillow like you’re trying to make it come.” Alex whines and drops down so that his shoulders  press into the mattress, his ass up and thigh muscles straining as he grinds against the pillow even harder.

“You gonna come, babygirl?” Jefferson says breathlessly. “You gonna come and ruin that pillow just because I told you to?”

A little _uh_ punctuates every thrust of Hamilton’s hips and he whines into the gag needily.

Apparently it makes for a good enough plea since Jefferson groans again, the slick, accelerating movements of his own hand now clearly audible, and says, “Go on then,” and Hamilton almost weeps, but not quite, thankfully. He fucks into the unyielding mass between his thighs frantically with stuttering hips and comes between the folds of the pillowcase with a strangled cry. Jefferson moans into his ear openly for the first time, presumably coming as well. Alexander shudders and keeps rolling his hips in small circles until he’s spent dry. It’s intense and yet somehow unsatisfying at the same time, like it tends to be when one gets off to an incredible but unattainable fantasy.

When Alex starts to slowly come to, he registers the drool dripping down his chin and grimaces. Of course he’s grateful Jefferson isn’t actually in the room as soon as he’s gotten off. He pries his upper torso off the damp, messy bedsheets, reaches up to undo the clasp of his gag and stretches his aching jaw.

With another grimace Alex reluctantly picks up the phone that he dropped in the midst of orgasming into his pillow violently and raises it to his ear. It’s sort of surprising Jefferson hasn’t cut the call yet.

He clears his throat. “So that was…”

“Yeah,” Jefferson deadpans.

An awkward silence ensues. What is one supposed to say after accidentally ending up mutually getting off with one’s professional enemy? ‘Thanks'?

“I’ll see you in Monday’s meeting when I’m forced to not laugh at your stupid opinions. Bye,” he snaps and cuts the call before Jefferson has a chance to get the last word in. He tosses the phone to the other side of the bed and lays back against the disgusting, sticky sheets. He really will have to throw away the proof of his shame, or burn them perhaps.

He said he’d see Jefferson next Monday but will he really be able to ever again look his adversary in the eye after what they’ve done? _Not without dragging him into the nearest supply closet and dropping to my knees, at least._

Alex groans in disgust and throws an arm over his eyes. He is thoroughly and irrevocably fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To your knowledge, the harness I used as a reference for the one Ham is wearing here is [this one](https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/527370349/pink-body-harness-cage-bra-pastel-pink?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=pink%20body%20harness&ref=sr_gallery_9).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to just be a dumb one shot but you people seemed to like it for some reason so this fic is a A Thing now, I guess. No takebacks.
> 
> Also, a standard reminder that this fic is in no way an exercise in proper kink negotiation. We, as an audience of a piece of fiction know with full certainty that all parties are consenting and enjoying themselves, but in real life waaay more communication is needed. And like, aftercare is an important thing too. Okay? Okay.

He’s doing it on purpose. He has to be doing it on purpose.

Thomas Jefferson’s mouth is moving, yammering on about the PR department’s achievements this quarter, but more importantly his hands are gripping a long, thin pointer stick supposedly for the purposes of the presentation, sometimes tapping it against his palm for emphasis, and suddenly Hamilton is starting to think maybe their ancestors were onto something with the whole dueling-thing.

Where did he even _find_ that thing? Haven’t they, as a company and society as a whole, moved on to laser pointers ages ago? This is the 21st century for Christ’s sake, not _Road to Avonlea-_

At a particularly theatrical point Jefferson sees it fit to snap the stick against the screen the powerpoint is projected on. The sharp sound sends a jolt through Hamilton and he badly disguises the way his shoulders shoot up to his ears as a stretch. It _has_ to be on purpose.

It won’t work. It won’t. Hamilton now knows, from experience unfortunately, that entertaining this… thing that Jefferson stirs in his guts will only lead to soul-crushing regret before he even finishes orgasming. Alexander has now re-entered a rational state of mind in which he thinks with his brain, not with his dick, and there he intends to stay.

Jefferson’s long fingers gingerly dance up the length of the pointer stick, and back down, fingertips brushing against the wood lightly.

Hamilton swallows. He’ll probably have to excuse himself to the restroom a lot to maintain this state of mind. Damn Jefferson, costing him valuable work time.

Jefferson’s mouth is no longer moving, which is a great improvement in itself, except everyone’s looking at Alexander now for some reason.

He works out it must be the end of the presentation, the part in which questions are asked, and because Hamilton is the only one in the financial department with a backbone, he’s the one they’re all expecting to counter Jefferson’s bullshit. Great.

Good thing multitasking is Alexander’s forte; he’s completely capable of noting the glaring issues in Jefferson’s logic while simultaneously picturing the guy bending him over a desk and marking his backside in thin, red cane-marks that he would feel for days after- And, yup, irrevocably fucked.

“Yeah, uh, quick question,” he says sarcasm already lacing his voice, shifting to lean back with an ankle on his knee and glaring up at his professional adversary.

A professional adversary who blinks down at him with a thin cane tapping lightly against his left palm, equipped with the knowledge of what Alexander looks like grinding desperately into a pillow dressed in a pink harness, cheeks red and hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, what he sounds like groaning into a mouthful of latex as his raspy commanding voice tips him over the edge. Alex feels naked all of a sudden, like Jefferson can strip him of his most expensive suit with just a look, reveal what he really is under all that pretense class he scraped together by always being the first to come and the last to leave the office.

Hamilton clears his throat. “Wh-whose money are you planning on throwing into this pyre of a budget plan?”

Jefferson’s eyes narrow and the cane stills.

Alex could sigh of relief when they fall into the usual pattern. Debating, this he can do. Sharp words with lethal intent aimed with point-blank accuracy at the weak spots of each other’s arguments, not laced with a threat that might as well be interpreted as a promise. Just good, old-fashioned mutual distaste with an aftertaste of forced recognition. They are enemies at worst and, begrudgingly admitted, intellectual equals at best. A momentary lapse in judgement won’t complicate that if Hamilton has any say in it.

Except then Washington sighs and pushes his chair back in that Washington-like manner that makes the whole room snap into attention and says, “Why don’t you two hang back and work it out, I don’t think the rest of us are needed here.”

Shit.

“Sir, I really don’t-” Alex protests, his heart suddenly hammering an ominous tune against his ribcage.

“Report back to me later,” Washington says, and there’s no arguing the command in his voice even as Alexander’s sense of self-preservation makes a rare appearance to scream at him to come up with some dumb excuse to not be left alone in a room with Jefferson and his stupid fucking cane.

People filter out, the door clicks shut and Alexander’s sense of self-reservation slinks back into the unused corner of his mind where it belongs.

Jefferson drops into a swivel chair and spins around lazily. “You know, we’d both save some time if you could stop being an intransigent shit just for the sake of being an intransigent shit.”

Alex also drops into a chair, safely on the other side of the table from Jefferson. “We’re both on the clock so I don’t see the problem,” he says dryly. “I’m not gonna let you burn up our budget just so that I don’t have to be around you, as tempting as you make the prospect.”

Jefferson stills sideways to Hamilton, an elbow on the hand rest, head slightly tilted and eyes narrowed at him. “Oh yeah?”

And, Jesus Christ, he doesn’t even need to say it out loud. It just _sits_ between them, what they’ve done less than a week ago. There’s no taunting in Jefferson’s eyes as much as a certain… hungry assuredness, of all the things he could make Alex do for him.

This is bad. So very incredibly bad. If he doesn’t say something quick this tension will make him do something really stupid.

“Agree to 40% of your proposed funding and we’ll call it a day,” he shoots.

“Oh, eat a dick, Hamilton,” Jefferson groans and throws his head back. “That figure was calculated to cover the most _basics_ of PR-related…”

At ‘basics’ Jefferson emphasizes by snapping the pointer against the table between them, not too far away from Alexander’s hand which his resting on the surface, and this time around Alex can do nothing to disguise his flinch. Jefferson trails off and stares at him, his expression slowly morphing from puzzled to curious.

“Will you stop waving that thing around?” Hamilton snaps and clutches his hand close to his chest, hoping against hope he’s not blushing as much as it feels like he is.

Jefferson stands up slowly, picks up the pointer and circles the table to Alexander like he’s deliberating a puzzle or an art work, looking at it carefully from different angles to make better sense of it. Alex is frozen to his seat, his eyes fixating on the neat half Windsor of his maroon tie. He knows now what that body looks like under the tightly fitted suit. His mouth dries up as his mind decides to conjure up an image of what those muscles might look like in motion, not consolidated into a fleeting image on a phone screen.

Jefferson’s tilts his head again and the tip of the pointer runs lightly down Alexander’s thigh. He shivers helplessly and grips the hand rests of the chair with white knuckles.

“Why, Alexander,” Jefferson drawls. Alex wants to snap at him for using his full Christian name like he’s his mom or something, but then he says, “If caning is what you wanted all along, all you needed to do was ask. No need to act out.” And Alexander’s mind almost reboots on the spot.

“Your opinions are still shit,” he grits out, but his voice comes out disgustingly weak and strained.

Jefferson hums contemplatively and the cane snaps against Alexander’s inner thigh. It’s a tentative strike, barely hard enough to even sting, but it still makes Alex gasp and spread his legs wider.

Jefferson seems to take that as an open invitation to go to town as he grabs Hamilton’s collar and jerks him out of the chair and onto his feet.

His hot breath brushes against the top of Hamilton’s cheekbone as he breathes, “bend over the table, slut,” and Alex is gone, he is actually so far gone even a dedicated team of rescuers couldn’t pull him out of this swamp of stupidity he’s deliberately sinking into.

He finally makes eye contact, fixating on Jefferson’s dark and hungry irises as he slides his suit jacket off and tosses it blindly over the backrest of the chair behind him.

Alex then takes a slow step back, swallows down the pride knotted in his throat and lays his upper torso flat against the cool, semi-transparent surface of the table. Fear mixes with excitement into a fun little cocktail in the pit of his stomach. Anyone could walk in, it’s unlikely since even the interns know better than to interrupt their fighting at this point, but someone could have left a phone or a tablet behind and come looking for it. They’re both going to get fired because he misplaced his thumb for a few millimeters on accident.

Hamilton comes really close to actually bringing himself to care.

“Now,” Jefferson says and yanks the hair tie out of Alexander’s hair. He hisses as some stray hairs go with it, affronted and painfully aware of how half-mast he is already. It catches on the edge of the table slightly uncomfortably. “Wonder how long I should make you feel the consequences of mouthing off?”

Jefferson’s hand twists in Alexander’s hair and his legs are nudged apart.

“An hour?” The cane snaps sharply against the back of Alexander’s thigh and he sucks air in sharply. “A day?” The cane comes down again, this time on the other thigh. The wood is slightly flexible, the way it hits his skin even through two thin layers of fabric sends a narrow line of pain flashing against his skin.

“Harder,” Alex groans, his palms spread flat against the table and his cheek pressed against the cool surface to keep him grounded while the world around him turns into mush.

“What, you want me to give it to you harder, slut?” Jefferson rasps.

“Please, sir,” Alex groans and this time it’s Jefferson whose breath catches.

There’s a swoosh of air as the cane comes down again and sends a blazing line of pain across Alexander’s backside. He bites into his lower lip to suppress the moan that wants to come out to alert everyone in the office of their current activity. The cane comes down again, hard and he whimpers and ruts weakly, uselessly against the edge of the table.

“Damn,” Jefferson’s voice has gone hoarse. “How are you so goddamn responsive? I haven’t even…”

Five or six more strikes and the skin of Alexander’s backside and his upper things is starting to tingle, raw and sore. The cane raps on his upper, inner thigh and Jefferson’s hand twists in his hair and Alexander keens, high and whiny and way louder than is wise.

“Careful now,” Jefferson says and drops the pointer on the table next to Alexander’s panting form. “Someone’s gonna hear you. This room can’t even be locked, you know.” He grabs Alexander’s hips and grinds against his backside. The pressure against the sensitive skin alone would make Hamilton moan, but more than that it’s the feeling of Jefferson’s hardness rubbing against his backside that makes the needy sound come out. He can’t stop himself form remembering the sight of Jefferson’s fingers wrapping around that precum-seeping cock.

“You like that, then?” Jefferson groans quietly and ruts Hamilton’s hips against the hard, unforgiving edge of the table with every thrust of his hips. “You like the idea of someone coming in and seeing you like this, panting for my cock?”

Alex musters up the strength to spread his legs further and grind back with his hips in small circles, his back arching shamelessly.

“Shit,” Jefferson grits out. His fingers dig harder into Alexander’s sides and he stills. Alex groans against the table, his erection pulsing with need. So close, he’s so close.

“This is too risky,” Jefferson murmurs and steps back. “My office, 6:30.”

Four strides on freakishly long legs and Alex is alone in the conference room, spread out on a table and hard as a rock.

The nerve. The fucking nerve.

Alex forces himself to straighten up and glances down at the really fucking evident bulge in his pants. He can’t leave the room like this, and God knows how long it’ll take to get it down, especially with the slight twinge of pain every movement causes on his abused skin. He’ll miss valuable work time because of Thomas fucking Jefferson.

The worst part is that he’s pretty sure the payoff will be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea no idea how much I'll write of this thing or how often I'll update but uhh stay posted? Also I can be found on [Tumblr](https://nightshiftblues.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case yall haven’t figured it out yet, this fic is just a smutfest. I wasn’t prepared to have a plot for these horny millennial shenanigans, sorry.

“So did you do him?”

Thomas’ hand twitches mid-movement and the pen twirling between his fingers goes clacking on the mahogany of his office desk. James only raises an eyebrow at Thomas from the doorway.

“Did I- did I what?” he stammers.

“Did you do it?” James repeats slowly. “Wring a compromise out of Hamilton? Or did you just chew each other out until one of you had to leave again?”

Thomas inhales and rubs a hand over his eyes. “No.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Because Hamilton’s a bitch?” Damn. Calling Hamilton a bitch has a different feel to it now that he knows that the guy enjoys it.

And, in all fairness, Thomas enjoys it now too, in a different way than before. Which is a bad thought-tangent to follow when James is there leaning one shoulder to the doorway of his office, arms crossed and his silent, thoughtful eyes trained on Thomas like he’s some kind of a mid-tier crossword puzzle to be solved.

After a silent pause James steps into the office and closes the door. Thomas picks up the pen, his face carefully on the bored side of neutral, as his friend draws out a chair and sits.

“Is there something going on between you two?”

Of course James sees it right away. _Of course._ Thomas meets his dark eyes across the table.

“What do you mean? You’re present to pretty much all of our interactions at work and I don’t exactly make a point of hanging with the guy on my freetime,” he says and maintains the eye contact as casually and convincingly as he can. _Nothing’s changed, Hamilton’s just a professional annoyance whom I most certainly did not spank to the brink of a climax just now,_ he tries to silently communicate with his eyes.

James rests an elbow over the back of the chair and shrugs. “He’s nervous around you now.”

Thomas snorts. “Really? ‘Cause to me the guy looks like he’s one extra espresso shot away from a nervous breakdown at all times anyways.”

“He’s always been agitated around you,” James continues as if Thomas is merely a sounding board for his musings. “Easily provoked and worked up, yes, but you two passed the point of civility that warrants nervousness ages ago.”

“Didn’t realize you’re an expert on human character nowadays, maybe you should stop wasting your talents on PR and go be a matchmaker or an insurance scammer instead,” Thomas grumbles. It’s a weak jab and Madison communicates as much with a silent, unimpressed look.

Thomas can admit he’s fighting a losing battle here. Time for a smooth, seamless change of topic. “Has HR gotten back to you about that Clemont situation?”

James sighs and goes with it, probably out of respect for Thomas’ right to be stubborn and tight-lipped rather than actual resignation.

After Madison takes his leave, Thomas spends half an hour or so blindly clicking from one tab to another.

He can’t tell James, or anyone, not now when he doesn’t even know himself what this thing between him and Hamilton is supposed to be. If it even is _a thing._ It certainly was never supposed to become one. Thomas had thought of it as an occasional spiteful fantasy at best, the idea of bending Hamilton over and showing him where _his_ shoe fits just being a tantalizing prospect to entertain when the man has been ranting for ten minutes straight. Occasionally flirting with Alexander was just a harmless pastime; mostly he’d just do it to get a rise out of him.

And then Hamilton goes and, completely unprompted, sends Thomas a picture of himself gagged and in lingerie and splayed out on a bed all pretty and needy and suddenly all the fleeting fantasies are in technicolor and high definition, slamming into the forefront of his mind whenever Hamilton absentmindedly chews on his pen or plays with his hair. And then Hamilton looks at him with his pupils blown and his cheeks reddened in a strangely demure way and calls him _sir_ and that part of Thomas’ self-control labelled ‘not doing things that will potentially get Thomas fired’ goes flying out of the window.

No, it really shouldn’t become a thing. It’s bad enough Thomas is apparently derailed enough to find _Hamilton_ of all people attractive. It’s clearly just some messed up pride thing, the novelty of it and the victory in getting someone who supposedly hates you to beg for it. And maybe also the fact that their particular sets of kinks seem to be a match made in Hell has something to do with it. That last bit is hardly a surprise; just looking at the way Hamilton moons over Washington has lead Jefferson to suspect the guy has a thing for power and discipline from the beginning, he’s not exactly subtle despite of his bratty demeanor.

 _‘He’s your type you know,’_ Thomas suddenly recalls James saying after his third beer during some after-work get together. _‘You won’t admit it but you like cute, bratty, impassioned bottom boys that you can put into their place and Alex fits that description to a t.’_ Oh, hell. James definitely knows everything.

Whatever. He’ll see Hamilton later when all the non-workaholics have scurried home and fuck the novelty-based attraction out of his system and then this will stop being a thing and they can go back to business as usual. Another day, another notch in his bedpost.

The hours drag by in a sludge of email-drafting and vacant wall-staring. The latter occasionally leading to thoughts that lead to an inconvenient stirring between Jefferson’s legs. He’s not quite sure whether it’s a blessing or a curse that snaps can’t be saved, half-wonders if Hamilton would let him snap a picture just for the memories (he wouldn’t), but shakes the thought because one-off hatefucks are not something you’re supposed to reminisce about after the fact.

At 6:10 Washington walks into his office to discuss the quarterly reports, Hamilton trailing at his heels looking every bit like someone who was forced to come along after a stern talking-to from daddy. The sourness of his expression improves Jefferson’s mood like a charm.

Washington sits down, his movements impressively smooth and graceful for a man of his size as usual, but Hamilton remains standing up, his posture stiff and palms gripping some folder close to his chest like a protective shield.

Understanding flashes through Thomas’ head, down his spine and somewhere dangerously close to his dick.

“Won’t you take a seat, Hamilton?” he can’t resist offering, an innocuous smile on his face.

“I’m fine standing up, thank you,” Hamilton grits between his teeth, a hint of a blush on his cheeks and the look in his eyes so murderous it’s a little bit surprising it doesn’t burn a hole into the wall behind Jefferson’s head.

Thomas takes a sip from his (cold and gross) coffee to cover up the twitch of his lips. _His ass is still hurting, then._ Even as Washington starts to discuss the budget, Jefferson’s mind is reeling, conjuring up images and possibilities he would be way better off not thinking about right now. Like if Washington made Hamilton sit earlier, made him feel the reminder of Thomas’ strikes with every little shift while he was being lectured about being polite in meetings.

By the end of the conversation Thomas has strategically settled behind his table in a way that keeps his crotch out of Washington’s line of sight, just in case.

“I think this is enough for the day now,” his boss says. “Thank you for your time, Thomas.”

Thomas smiles. “Of course, I’m glad we could have this chat. Hamilton, do you mind staying? I wanted to finish our talk earlier.”

“Sure,” Hamilton grits out and Washington gives him a warning look on his way out. It’s just too good.

The door closes and Thomas takes the time to slowly drag his eyes down Hamilton’s nervously fidgeting frame.

“Lock the door,” he says.

Hamilton is slow to obey, but he obeys nevertheless and a quiet grin creeps on Jefferson’s lips. It’s really something, the change in Alexander’s demeanor when he knows he’ll be rewarded for being a good boy. It makes him want to push, to see how far the man is willing to go for some cock. It’s an exciting uncharted territory and Thomas has always been notoriously bad at resisting those.

“Sit,” he says and turns back to his computer. Hamilton hesitates again, but slowly makes his way to the chair Washington left drawn out and drops down with a very satisfying wince and an inhale.

Thomas goes back to drafting an enquiry he’d been working on earlier.

Hamilton manages to be quiet for about thirty seconds. “Can’t we just get this over with?”

“I thought I said 6:30,” Jefferson hums, his eyes still trained on the screen.

“It is 6:30!”

“No, it’s 6:24,” Thomas points out.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Be a good boy and wait.”

Hamilton’s hands clench into fists over his knees and Thomas bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smirking.

Turns out it takes more than a vague promise of dick to turn Hamilton into a patient man. At 6:27 he inhales deeply, slides onto the floor and crawls under Thomas’ desk.

“What did I just tell you?” Thomas leans back and raises an eyebrow at the man slotted between his legs, glaring up at him with narrowed eyes. The angle does work for Hamilton, he can admit as much to himself.

“You were taking too long.”

“I’m starting to think you just want another spanking.”

“Maybe,” Alex pushes Jefferson’s knees apart and noses against the side of his inner thigh. “Or you could just shove your cock down my throat and make my voice hoarse for the rest of the day.”

Ah, there it is. This corny porn talk they slip into whenever they cross this line. Makes it feel more impersonal than talking to each other like they usually do while they’re trampling over every other boundary their relationship is supposed to have.

“You’d like that, huh,” Thomas says and yanks at the loose bun resting at the back of Hamilton’s neck. “Bet you’d love to go have another talk with Washington about proper workplace conduct with your jaw still sore, my taste in your mouth and your ass still stinging from the caning.”

Hamilton’s eyes darken and his hands rush to undo Jefferson’s fly. “Bet you can’t make me gag.”

Thomas snorts. “You’re a pro at this, then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to…” Alex trails off as he pulls Jefferson’s hardening cock out of his boxers and the way his bottom lip catches between his teeth makes Thomas’ ego do a backflip. He knows he’s well-equipped, so to speak, but seeing the badly disguised awe on the face of someone as proud and standoffish as Alex is pretty good.

“Feel free to back down on that gagging-thing at any time, there’s no shame in that,” Thomas says sweetly.

Hamilton snorts quietly and this time it’s him smiling up at Thomas as his palms come to pin Thomas’ hips into the chair. “You just focus on staying still.”

A clever quip dies on Jefferson’s lips as Hamilton’s mouth seals around the tip of his cock and Hamilton’s cheeks hollow as he sucks with single-minded focus. A drawn-out hiss slips out between Jefferson’s teeth, part from the intense stimulation and part from the ruthless eye contact Hamilton keeps making, like he’s trying to pin Thomas down with his eyes as much as with those palms pressing down on his hip bones insistently.

Hamilton then sinks all the way down to the pubic bone and the overwhelming sensations of hot and wet and _what is he_ doing _with his tongue_ override Thomas’ perceptual capabilities. His mouth falls open and his hand tightens in Hamilton’s hair as the other one grips the arm of the chair with white knuckles. _My God._

Hamilton looks awfully smug as he drags his mouth slowly up Thomas’ length. His tongue traces a vein on its way up and flicks over the slit languidly and Thomas’ toes curl up in his shoes. God, he wants to wipe that smug expression off Hamilton’s face, but not badly enough to make him stop.

Thomas gives Hamilton’s hair another sharp tug and notes the way his breath catches. When Hamilton sinks back down and starts to bob his head, pink lips wrapping so fucking tightly around Thomas’ shaft, some of the sharpness seems to leave his eyes; his face gains a sort of a blissed-out, yet purposeful expression.

Paired with the tears in Hamilton’s eyes and the redness of his cheeks, it’s the hottest goddamn thing Thomas can recall witnessing in that moment.

“Yeah, yeah, just like that,” he groans and half-pulls half-pets the bundle of hair at the base of Hamilton’s neck that’s starting to resemble a bun less and less as Thomas’ twitching fingers weave through the strands. Hamilton’s eyes fall shut and he moans. The vibrations it sends down Jefferson’s shaft make his hips nudge forward, but Hamilton still has an iron grip on him so in the chair he remains.

“Yes, you’re doing so good baby,” he gasps, the pet name just sort of slipping out and it feels a lot weirder than calling Hamilton a slut or a bitch but it’s difficult to lament over things like that when the tip of his dick is getting introduced to the base of Hamilton’s throat and the guy actually _swallows_ like he does this for a living.

“You should do this for a living,” Jefferson shares his epiphany as Hamilton keeps up the deepthroating probably just to show that he can. “Just a warm mouth under- under my desk-”

He loses his train of thought when Hamilton’s tongue curls under his shaft and he picks up the pace. Thomas’ breath escapes his lungs in the form of a drawn-out moan and it really registers just then, how loud they’re actually being between the wet (disgustingly erotic) noises of Hamilton’s mouth and the little whines and moans the guy is making like he’s having the time of his life. Here’s to hoping everyone has scurried home already, because Thomas sure as hell isn’t about to stop now.

“Ahh fuck, I wanna come down your throat,” Thomas groans and Hamilton-

Hamilton pulls back with a wet pop, panting and red and saliva dripping down his chin and still so very fucking pretty somehow.

“Yeah? You sure it’s not-” Hamilton’s voice cracks and he stops to cough, “excuse me. You sure it’s not too risky?”

Jefferson just stares, his fried brain struggling to comprehend why that mouth is talking rather than sucking him off presently. He’s not gonna-

He is. Hamilton swipes the side of his mouth on his shirt sleeve and flips Thomas off with both hands.

“Bye, asshole.”

He’s out of the room before Thomas manages to string two words together. The scent of sex hangs thick in the air and his pulse still hammers frantically in his ears.

For a moment he just stares at the wall mutely.

This really shouldn’t have become a thing, Thomas knows that will full certainty now. That doesn’t stop him from thinking about Hamilton’s half-lidded eyes and scorching hot mouth as he wraps a hand around himself, though.

“Fucker…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy heck I actually wrote a fic where Alex gets back at Thomas for being a skank?? Don’t get used to it.
> 
> Shoutout to uptownkretch, who gave me the idea of having Thomas’ pov in this!
> 
> (Also you may have noticed I’ve changed my username! Sorry if someone had my works-page bookmarked or something since the link is broken now, I just couldn’t live with that weeb ass pen name from my secondary school-days anymore.)


	4. Chapter 4

Late night cable is trash. Thomas flips through the channels and physically feels his brain cells dwindle up and die with every scripted reality show with a double digit season count that appears on the screen. 

He’s becoming overly dramatic. Some kind of a Hamiltonian effect probably.

The back of Thomas’ head thumps against the backrest of the couch. There his brain goes again with the thinking about Hamilton-nonsense. If he’d thought the man had an uncanny ability to crawl under his skin before, it was nothing compared to the way he does now that Thomas has seen Hamilton crawling under his office desk, looking up at him like Thomas has no idea what he’s getting into (and being right).

A slight metallic taste floods his mouth and Thomas releases his bottom lip from the hold of his teeth with an annoyed grunt.

His phone lights up and he nearly drops the remote when he sees it’s a snap from Hamilton. Of course it would be - the guy clearly has a sixth sense for the optimal timing to agitate Thomas these days.

It’s a picture of Hamilton sitting cross-legged on his bed, jeans sitting low on his waist, shirt unbuttoned and that damn pink harness on again. “Come over?” says the caption.

Wow. They haven’t even fucked and Hamilton already thinks Thomas is his bitch, apparently. He rolls his eyes and beats down the surge of interest in his lower belly. The man is irrational if he thinks Thomas will run to him at 11 pm after that stunt he pulled at the office.

He flips Alex off in the selfie he sends him as a response. “Go fuck urself since I sure as hell won’t.”

Hamilton’s pouting in the next picture. “Aw, don’t be like that.”

Thomas snorts in annoyance and tosses his phone aside. Puppy eyes, really? If this is how Hamilton has wormed his way into the good graces of Washington and the like, the world has fallen into a sorry state of affairs.

He tries his hardest to pay attention to  _ The Bachelor _ despite of his utter and absolute lack of fucks and five or ten minutes tick by without further messages. He’s not disappointed Hamilton has clearly moved on to some other booty call, probably Laurens from accounting, as the rumor has it. Or Schuyler from HR if she wasn’t too classy for booty calls, and Hamilton in general. It doesn’t bother Thomas because he truly doesn’t give a-

His phone starts to vibrate and Thomas’ hand shoots out to snatch it from the sofa cushions with serpent-like speed and agility.

For a moment all he hears is soft panting and a distant buzzing sound. Rustling bedsheets.

“Hamilton,” Thomas says, his voice purposefully flat.

A quiet moan curls around the edge of Hamilton’s exhale. “Come over.”

Jefferson’s fingers curl around his kneecap. “I told you that’s not gonna happen.”

“Please,” Hamilton groans. “The vibrator just isn’t- it’s not  _ enough,  _ I need, I need-”

“Too bad. Only good boys get fucked into the mattress at a short notice and good boys finish their damn blowjobs.” The raspy desperation in Hamilton’s voice has Thomas slipping into dom-talk almost habitually. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Please, please, I’ll make it up to you,” Hamilton pants. He sounds so needy and wrecked, even though surely he  _ has _ to know what begging does to Thomas by now. “Please, I need it, ever since you bent me over that table, I need it.”

...Okay. Thomas can be the bigger person here. Forgiveness is a virtue and all that.

He hums contemplatively. “I’m not sure what you mean, Alexander. Care to elaborate what you want me to do for you?”

“Let me ride your cock,” Hamilton responds instantly. Based on his labored breathing and muffled squelching sounds, he’s moving the vibrator as he speaks. “I’ll be good I promise, I’ll ride you so good, like a proper slut, or you can- you can just slide into me and fuck me however you want, I’m all wet and stretched out for you,” Hamilton stops to moan here, and it sounds like he rolls over. “I’m so hard but- but I’ll be good and I’ll wait. Please, you don’t even have to make me come, just mess me up.”

Hamilton and his mouth. The mental image hits Thomas with full force just then; Hamilton stretched out on his bed, hips helplessly gyrating to meet the vibe in his ass. Thomas licks his lips. “Stop touching yourself and text me your address.”

Hamilton lets out another drawn-out moan. “Yes, thank you, thank you.”

“No touching until I get there,” he reminds him and cuts the call.

Thomas glances down at the bulge in his pants and rubs a hand over his eyes. Useless.

The drive is mercifully quick. Thomas spends it restlessly tapping on the steering wheel, unable to even register what song is playing on the radio. He locates Hamilton’s apartment with the vigilance of a man on a mission and only spares a fleeting thought to the shabby neighborhood. Hamilton really should be able to do better with what Washington pays him.

There’s a sound of urgent patter of feet as soon as Thomas rings the buzzer and the door swings open.

Hamilton’s face tints to red and he’s only wearing a pair of boxers in addition to his shirt and the harness, but he glares up at Thomas as if he didn’t beg him to come over just ten-ish minutes ago.  _ So that’s how it is. _

Jefferson steps into the apartment, into Alexander’s personal space slowly and deliberately, until the other man in forced to take an unsteady step back. Thomas keeps his eyes trained on Hamilton’s face as he grabs the edge of the door and pushes it shut. Hamilton’s shoulders jump as the lock snaps. His breath comes out slightly shallow.

For a while Thomas just stands so close to Hamilton he’s forced to look up at him and lets him squirm. “I really shouldn’t be rewarding your bad behavior like this.”

Annoyance scrunches up Hamilton’s features. He turns around and starts down the hallway, shrugging with one shoulder. “You’re not my dom, I don’t have to be good for you.”

Well isn’t that a loaded statement and a half? Thomas watches the back of Hamilton’s head as he follows the man down the hallway into his bedroom, unable to gauge if that was supposed to be a statement, a reminder or a suggestion, or some kind of a mix of the above. Maybe Hamilton doesn’t know, either. Maybe he has also entertained the idea despite of himself, tallied up the disadvantages in forming an intimate bond that requires actual trust and affection with someone who makes your blood boil with equal amounts of hatred and desire.

“Fair enough,” is all Thomas says to that.

They end up with Hamilton standing at the edge of the bed, facing away from Thomas while he slides the shirt down his arms and drops it onto the floor. Thomas sucks in an appreciative breath and runs his fingers lightly up Hamilton’s arms, then down his sides. He takes in the design of the harness appreciatively, the triangular cage shape and the soft pink strip of fabric that follows the line of Hamilton’s spine up to the back of his neck. Apparently there’s one aspect where Hamilton’s taste isn’t too bad.

“Such a pretty little slut,” he mouths against Hamilton’s shoulder and presses a hand against his crotch. Hamilton catches on immediately and starts to grind into Thomas’ palm, breathing out delicious, needy little sounds. The fabric of his boxers is damp with his need already. Thomas squeezes his ass, hard, and follows with a firm smack.

Hamilton lets his head fall back against Thomas’ shoulder and groans softly. “Mess me up.”

Thomas threads his hand into Alexander’s ponytail. “Call me sir again.”

Hamilton grinds back against him unexpectedly and draws a surprised gasp out of Thomas. “Sir.”

The following few moments pass in a flurry; Thomas loses his clothes and Hamilton loses his boxers in a hasty group effort (they’ve never worked towards a shared goal so efficiently before and probably never will) and then Alex is being pressed into the mattress by his wrists and Thomas is slotted between his spread legs and-

And then they’re kissing. Thomas doesn’t usually do that sort of thing with casual lays, not any more than is necessary to get his partner on board for the main event at least, but Hamilton’s mouth is hot and wet and he can’t think of a good reason not to. Alex makes a noise that could best be described as a mewl and his lips part and Thomas licks into his mouth like he’s the best damn thing he has tasted in his life. His hips dip into a drawn-out thrust against Hamilton’s and they both shudder. Hamilton’s legs twist when Thomas’ teeth catch onto his lower lip. God, he wants to- somehow he wants to break Hamilton, take him apart until he’s nothing but a pile of rubble under him. But at the same time, at the same time the bones of Hamilton’s wrists are so delicate under his hands and his breath flutters soft and urgent against Thomas’ cheek and some weird instinct is telling him to gather Alexander in his arms and keep him there.

They part for breath and Hamilton looks absolutely wrecked already, lips slightly swollen, his hair a mess and his chest heaving frantically. “Damn,” he says hoarsely and Thomas can’t help but agree. Time to dial it back before things get weird.

Thomas finally releases Hamilton’s wrists and flips them around so that Hamilton’s straddling him. “Now,” he smirks, “what were you begging for earlier, again?”

He expects an eyeroll or a glare but instead Hamilton’s eyes sweep over his bare chest and abs and he just grinds down against Thomas’ hardened dick, his pupils black and large and his lower lip caught between his teeth. Thomas ignores the urge to bite it again and runs his hands up and down Hamilton’s lean thighs.

“You got a tie or something?”

Hamilton’s eyes widen and he scrambles off Thomas’ lap and to his dresser. While he’s at it, Thomas locates his clothes and digs a condom and a packet of lube from his jean pocket. As soon as the condom is rolled on Hamilton hands him some hideous mustard tie from the depths of his drawer and Thomas ties his hands behind his back. He doesn’t bother to draw out the process, as fun as it is to tease Hamilton. He needs to know if the guy rides dick as well as he sucks it. Right now.

“Not gonna gag me?” Hamilton asks breathlessly as he straddles Thomas again.

“A tempting idea,” Thomas hums, his fingertips tracing patterns over Hamilton’s hips. “But I think I’d rather not miss out on your pretty moans when I ruin you for anyone else who might fuck you in the future.” _Maybe next time,_ he doesn’t say.

This time Hamilton does roll his eyes. Thomas lines up his dick with his hole since the guy can’t do it himself with his hands tied up and Hamilton sinks down slowly.

They groan in unison and Thomas’ fingers dig into the meat of Alexander’s thighs. The vibrator must have been a sizeable one since Hamilton sinks down with ease, hits that perfect point between being stretched out and accommodating to Jefferson’s size while still feeling tight and hot around him.

Oh, and now he’s looking smug. Once he’s fully seated Hamilton rolls his hips in a slow, circular motion and smirks down at Thomas who, admittedly, probably looks like he’s seeing stars right about now. “That good?”

“Less talking, more bouncing,” Thomas groans.

And Hamilton delivers. He lifts himself up, up almost to the tip of Thomas’ dick and sinks down with a loud moan. And again. And again.

It’s pretty impressive, actually; Hamilton is not a very fit man, his body consisting mostly of skin drawn taunt over bone (Hamilton is known for neglecting meals over work) and soft, lean flesh. That doesn’t however stop him from riding Thomas only with the muscles of his torso and thighs, unable to even use his tied up hands for support. Or from tightening some other muscles with every thrust that make Thomas’ hips twist and his toes curl.

It makes for a pretty picture. Alexander’s skin glistens with sweat and his face twists with a mixture of effort, determination and desire. Thomas drinks in his quivering thighs, his pink and moist cheeks, the pretty bend of his spine aided by his drawn-back arms, his jaw slack with pleasure and his eyes dark and fixated on Thomas like he’s the only thing he can see. His cock is flushed red with arousal and dripping with cum, but Thomas has no intention of attending to that yet.

Alex shifts for a bit and falls back down on Thomas’ cock and something about the angle makes his next moan sound almost pained. “Oh, God,” he gasps.

Some part of Jefferson’s self-control snaps. His hands find themselves on Hamilton’s hips and squeeze, hard, and his hips snap upward as he pulls Hamilton down onto his dick. Hamilton cries out and Thomas thrusts up again and again with an unforgiving pace, clearly hitting Hamilton’s prostate every time.

He slaps Hamilton’s ass as hard as he can with the suboptimal angle and Hamilton yelps.

“Look at you,” he groans. “Bouncing on my cock like a good little whore.”

Hamilton gasps and his head falls back, his hips stuttering and losing that meticulous pace he’s managed to keep up until now.

“Want me to pound into you until you come just from my cock like the good-for-nothing slut you are?” Thomas manages to catch himself before he calls Hamilton ‘baby’ or something embarrassing like that this time around.

There are tears running down Hamilton’s cheeks now and he’s so pretty, how has Thomas never realized how fucking pretty Hamilton is?

“Yes, God, yes, please sir,” he gasps and Thomas loops an arm around him and throws him onto the mattress on his back. He lifts one of Alexander’s legs over his shoulder and loops an arm under the knee of his other one so that Hamilton is completely spread out under him.

He would make Hamilton beg for it again if he wasn’t too eager to get that tight heat around his dick again. Some garbled up curse falls from Hamilton’s mouth when Thomas slams into him and Thomas’ own thoughts turn into static with every slap of skin on skin as he drives himself as deep into Hamilton as he can.

“Oh God, oh God,” Hamilton whimpers and Thomas manages a weak smirk.

“Wonder where that extensive lexicon of yours went,” he taunts and presses his lower body flush against Hamilton’s cock with his next thrust so that the reply on Hamilton’s lips turns into a broken moan. “Hey. Wanna come?”

“Y-yes,” Hamilton cries and his eyes are wet and slightly red and his hair is no longer in a ponytail - it fans around his face in a messy pattern.

Thomas speeds up his thrusts, an impatient heat building up and up in his lower belly. God, it’s so good.

“And here I thought you didn’t care if I let you come or not,” he chuckles breathlessly.

Hamilton suddenly raises his head from the mattress and his lips clash into Thomas’, all sweeping tongue and nibbling teeth. The bastard also has the audacity to tighten the muscles of his ass in a way that makes Thomas lose his pace and fall against him until their lips  and chests are firmly pressed against each other.

“Please,” Hamilton whispers and moves to lick at the tendon of Thomas’ neck and Thomas just gives up. It’s useless, trying to control Hamilton.

He reaches down and (for revenge, he tells himself), wraps a hand around Hamilton, who shouts out with a mixture of surprise and stimulation, and jerks him off quickly and roughly, in tandem with his own thrusts. “Come then.”

And Hamilton does. As soon as his moans subside Thomas wipes his cum-stained hand over Hamilton’s face. The heat finally erupts and engulfs him and he comes with a drawn-out hiss. For some reason his lips find Hamilton’s now bitter ones as he thrusts into him a few more times, lazy and shallow, just to milk his orgasm and the moment to the fullest.

After a few beats he pulls out of Alexander and detaches their faces. Hamilton looks up at him his eyes wide and his tongue tracing his bottom lip and they both roll to the opposite sides of the bed.

Thomas coughs, turns to undo the knot of the tie around Hamilton’s wrists and runs a cautious hand down his sweaty side. “Can I… get you anything?”

Hamilton stretches his limbs out and eyes the red marks on his wrists with an unreadable expression. “Like I said, you’re not my fucking-"

“I know but I’m not an asshole who doms the hell out of someone and just fucks off, either,” Thomas snaps.

An indignant huff is all he gets for a response so Thomas rolls his eyes, lies down next to Hamilton and awkwardly loops an arm around his waist. Hamilton huffs again, but shifts so that his (sweaty and gross) back is pressed against Thomas’ (sweaty and gross) chest.

“This isn’t even in the top ten of the most hardcore scenes I’ve done,” Hamilton mutters and Thomas beats down the absurd sense of competition that tries to flare up in his chest. He’s seriously not turning into the type of a person who gets possessive over someone he has fucked  _ once.  _ And someone who just so happens to be  _ Alexander fucking Hamilton,  _ to top it off.

“Seemed to enjoy it well enough,” he says and runs a finger through the mess of cum on Hamilton’s lower belly for emphasis.

Hamilton’s ears turn slightly redder. “Try not to choke on your ego while you’re on my property, please.”

“Try not to choke on my dick the next time you come into my office, please.”

Hamilton groans and twists out of Thomas’ grasp and onto his back. He throws an arm over his eyes. “Get the fuck out of my house, Jefferson.”

Thomas snorts and presses a mocking kiss on Alexander’s jaw. “Laters.”

He throws his clothes back on and leaves the apartment without looking back to see if Alex is watching him go.

He can’t say he’s not looking forward to next Monday’s board meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yall. I’ve honestly been blown away by the overwhelmingly positive response to this fic? It’s been a blast and I can’t thank you guys enough for improving my life with your kudos and comments. I hope you all have a fantastic day/week/life.
> 
> I’m also just gonna cautiously advertise that I do take requests on [tumblr](https://nightshiftblues.tumblr.com/requests) ^.^


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